


For auld lang syne, my dear (Coda)

by by_nina



Series: For auld lang syne, my dear [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Auld Lang Syne, F/M, Growing Old Together, Holidays, New Year, New Year's Day, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Old Royai, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/by_nina/pseuds/by_nina
Summary: Roy turns quickly to Riza; the sight of her is enough to answer all of his questions. Her hair is more silver than blonde now, and her face has earned wrinkles for all her trouble of working with him all these years, seeing each plan through until the end. More importantly, it is a face that has never left his life.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Series: For auld lang syne, my dear [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065863
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	For auld lang syne, my dear (Coda)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MegTheMighty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegTheMighty/gifts).



> While it’s still January, it’s still a new year. So here’s the end of this story about dancing into a new year! Thanks to everyone who has followed this series, and special thanks to Meg for having old Royai on her FMA Secret Santa wishlist. I couldn’t not do it.

The years pass one after the other, a decade lapses into the next. Then, the day comes for Roy Mustang to welcome one final new year as the Führer of Amestris.

It passes like every New Year’s Eve that has come before. The streets come alive with high spirits at the stroke of midnight, the sky blooming into brilliant red and green and gold against deep black. Friends come together in an embrace, children are lifted onto their fathers’ shoulders so they could watch the fireworks over the crowd, lovers kiss. Lovers dance. The music is as it has always been; throughout Central, the same traditional song of many New Year’s Eves past echoes down every street and in every citizen’s voice. An accompaniment for memories gone by and new beginnings yet to come.

This all goes on for fifteen minutes before the Führer’s men usher him forward to deliver a message to the public. Without an introduction, the revelers fall into a reverent silence, gazing at him upon the stage at the head of the plaza. There it is for one last time, that quintessential image of Roy Mustang at the podium, sure to be armed with words that are all at once soothing, inspiring, rallying, and most of all sincere. The crowd waits in awe and melancholy.

“My dear fellow Amestrians…”

His voice has kept the verve of his youth, albeit roughened by the years gone by.

“… I am filled with many emotions as I stand here before you tonight. First, I am delighted to join you in celebration of New Year’s Day, even more so to see you with your loved ones on this joyous occasion, safe, healthy, and hopeful as we begin another year of traversing the road we have built together for our great country.”

He pauses, his next words catching in his throat. He allows himself a moment’s glance to his right where she stands at attention, the people’s beloved Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye. As always, she is quick to catch his hesitation and subtle about her response. She meets his gaze, gives a small, imperceptible nod, seeming to everyone else like she didn’t move at all. He sees it, of course, and so he offers her a smile for barely even a second before he looks out to the plaza again.

“At the same time, it is with a heavy heart that I am welcoming the new year with you as your Führer for the last time.” Even the air seems to have turned still. “These twenty years have been devoted to shaping Amestris into a country whose heart beats with its people and for its people. With your unwavering support and belief in a future that belongs to you and not to one single institution or person in power, we have made this possible, and in the spring, you will be electing your very first President as a democratic nation.”

He stops for the thunderous applause that erupts throughout the crowd. There is hollering, triumphant exclamations, fists pumped in the air and arms linked together. It lasts for a minute or two before gradually but not completely fading into silence, and he continues. “And though I long to serve you for many more years, I take comfort in the knowledge of what I leave in your hands to protect. An Amestris that stands for what is just and right, where man and woman, rich and poor, black and white may stand together. Living equally, studying equally, eating and drinking equally… and loving equally.” Another pause. “And this can only be nurtured through you, the upstanding servants that you will soon choose to lead you, and we cannot forget the Ishval Tribunal by whose hard work we shall soon truly mend our country’s wrongs.

“My deepest, sincerest thanks to you all, and a happy New Year.”

* * *

Roy makes his way home quietly two hours later, after the festivities have died down. It’s the quietest drive he has been on, and the first he’s had with Riza in a very long time. Being the Führer, he sits in the back, as was their arrangement for a time when she had just become his adjutant many years ago. From there, he watches her drive, her eyes clear with focus, her hands firm on the wheel.

“I hope I haven’t kept you from a good night’s rest,” he says.

“I’d appreciate your concern, Sir,” she replies, “if you had asked me that four decades ago.”

Their eyes meet for a moment in the rear-view mirror, sharing a knowing, laughing look. Riza turns her attention back onto the road, and Roy continues staring at her reflection long after. He pairs it with a fond smile.

“I’ll drop you off at the front steps.”

After a moment, he responds quietly, “The garden, please, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Her fingers flex on the wheel in recognition of the invitation beneath his order. Riza says nothing other than, “Of course.”

The Führer’s palace is largely surrounded by lush orchards that hide the estate from public view, but “the garden” is an open expanse of flowering shrubs over a well-manicured slope behind the palace. It offers a view of part of Central and has served as a hideaway for Roy on nights when he has been stressed about politics as well as bothered by other, more personal things. For the former, Riza has accompanied him as his confidante, an adviser, a friend. For the latter, Roy has needed only to think of her.

Alighting the car, they walk quietly into the garden, steps perfectly synchronized and the distance between them constant. Riza remains behind him, her eyes surely watching him as they always have—Roy knows exactly how her gaze feels on him, even when he isn’t returning it. He is tempted to, but he walks on, searching for a word to describe the feeling and how it relates to the shiver running through him, the warmth blooming in his chest, and then he stops in his tracks. Riza follows suit. He looks up at the view stretching up to the horizon, the city still aglow with the remnants of the night’s celebrations, and he lets out a breath of disbelief.

“I can’t believe how far we’ve come.”

The words, uttered barely under his breath, give Roy release and clarity. It’s as if it were much earlier in the night and he were more awake.

“This is all we have worked for,” he continues. “All these years… all the plans we made, the dreams we’ve had for this country… it’s what all this time has been for. All our work, all our…” His voice begins to quiver, and he sounds most like his younger self now. “… promises.”

Roy looks down, away from the view. “Is it true, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“What is?” Riza whispers.

“Have we really done all that we’ve meant to do? It’s just… it’s all too good to be true, isn’t it? Everything happened so fast, these twenty years as the Führer are all a blur. Have I done enough for our people? Will they be happy with all of it? The reforms, the tribunal, the elections, the…”

He trails off, the words sinking into him as something of a revelation. Roy turns quickly to Riza; the sight of her is enough to answer all of his questions. Her hair is more silver than blonde now, and her face has earned wrinkles for all her trouble of working with him all these years, seeing each plan through until the end. More importantly, it is a face that has never left his life. There he sees the twirling girl from Cameron, his young adjutant, the first woman he ever loved, and the most devoted Lieutenant Colonel in Amestris, his right hand, the only woman he has ever loved.

Riza looks at him with an understanding he has only ever known from her. She nods, smiling. “It’s true,” she says. “I should know. We’ve been together long enough.”

She could never lie to him, not after all this time.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye.”

“General Mustang.”

Roy steps forward, closer to her.

“Riza.” He whispers her name as though he were being careful with it.

“... Roy.”

He extends his hand to her.

“Will you dance with me?”

When she takes his hand, when they pull each other close, it feels natural, easy even without any kind of rehearsal. Roy moves as she does, following her steps and letting her follow his. Riza no longer hesitates to touch like she did in the past. It's a dance of mostly swaying and turning in place, perhaps because it's all their tired bodies can allow at the moment, or because it's all they need to make of it. The rhythm isn't any different from any of the other things they've been able to do together, anyway, like taking their places at the same table or walking side by side. They know each other in this moment just as well as they have in any other.

They dance quietly until he begins to sing the Amestris holiday song in her ear. It’s far from the rendition he first gave her all those years ago—his voice breaks off quite a bit, underscored by breaths and a rumble that wasn't there at seventeen—but the circumstances are so different that it feels like the first time once again. Then, he falters at the last note and fades back into silence, because by now he can only continue the song one other way.

The first kiss, he leaves on her hand, which he brings easily to his lips from their positions as they dance.

The second, he places on her cheek, almost like a whisper, even though there is no secret they need to keep anymore.

And the third—the third dissipates in the scant, delicate space between them, because he is overwhelmed just by being near her. All they do instead is face each other, foreheads touching, lips close but still apart. For the first time, they are physically close enough not to yearn to get closer, close enough to melt by a flame they cannot even see or touch.

Neither of them knows how long they dance or when they stop. It ends with them standing perfectly still and embracing each other under the deep blue sky between late night and dawn. They’ve always understood each other even without words, but for the first time they are quiet because there is nothing left to say, no more unkept promises—not to their country, not to each other.

Nothing, at least, except, "Happy New Year."

The words hold a new promise: a dance that will go on for the rest of their days.


End file.
